Firstlife. Gena Showalter
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Starvation is clearly my punishment. Bow is collateral damage, and there’s nothing I can do to help her. Every morning, the knowledge guts me anew.
On the fourth day, a knock sounds at our door soon after the other girls are let out for breakfast. As I shamble over, curious, the knock comes again, louder and harder. Through the glass in the center of the door I see Sloan’s pretty face.
She presses a piece of paper to the glass. Enjoy—K. She points down before ducking out of view.
Frowning, I look at the floor and watch, mesmerized, as a thin protein bar slides under the crack. Food! My dry-as-the-desert mouth suddenly waters and my hands tremble as I pick up the prize. So the gift has touched dirty concrete. So what. True hunger isn’t a twist in your stomach accompanied by an embarrassing grumble. True hunger makes you feel as if razors are slashing through your gut. There’s a hollow sensation you can’t ignore, your body growing colder and weaker by the minute. Weaker in a time and place where only the strong survive.
Might Equals Right. But as I told Killian, it shouldn’t.
Hunger has even caused Bow to hallucinate more vividly. Before, she would talk to the wall. Lately, she snarls at air, saying things like, You can’t come where you’re not invited. Go! and You’re not getting this one, prick.
By the time I straighten, practically crying with relief—screw the cameras—Sloan is gone.
I admit I’m tempted to hoard every nibble, but I have enough faults. I don’t need to add greedy and selfish to the mix. I’m trembling as I split the bar and throw half to Bow.
Her mouth forms a small O. She’s lying on her bed, the covers bunched at her feet. “You’re sharing with me?”
“You say that like I’ve complained you’ve been using half our air.” I stuff the bar in my mouth, my eyes closing in bliss as I chew and swallow. Oh, wow. Oh, yes. I owe Killian big-time. My hunger fed on my hope, each day becoming more depressing than the last. Right now, I could sing and dance through the cell like a freaking Disney princess.
I guess I owe Sloan, too. She risked punishment to help me.
Wait. Why did she risk punishment? And why did Killian send her, of all people? Are the two friends now? More than friends?
My hands curl, my nails digging into my palms.
“You’ve been living on shower water.” Bow still sounds shocked.
“So have you.” If Vans shuts off our pipes—and I have a sinking feeling that will be his next move—we’ll be reduced to drinking from the toilet.
“You’re wasting away while I have untapped resources.” She smooths a hand over her rounded belly before tossing her ration at me. “Here. I’m not hungry.”
How can—
Whatever. I’m not going to argue with her. I devour the offering.
She anchors her hands behind her head and peers at me. “I know your parents want you to sign with Myriad, but why send you to a place like this to get the job done?”
“My dad is desperate. He loves his job and the money he makes, the power he has.”
If I do sign with Myriad, maybe I can get them to rejig their slogan/motto/whatever. I’d go with... I don’t know... Sharing Is Caring!
The thought makes me smile.
“He actually thought paying someone to beat you into submission was the perfect solution?” She snorts. “Has he met you?”
I hike up my shoulders. “Fear makes people stupid.”
“For sure. Fear destroys. Hope is always the answer.”
I like that. “When I was a kid, my mom used to say something similar. She grew up with Troikan parents.”
Bow perks up. “What made her sign with Myriad?”
“My dad, mostly. Oh. And the rigidity of Troikan law. She complained a lot.”
“Well, don’t believe the hype. No civilization can thrive without rules of conduct, and all of ours fall into one of three categories. King, realm and self. But everything boils down to this. Treat others the way you want to be treated, and hold no grudges.”
A tri-tier of rules...which makes sense. Troika means a group of three people working together, especially in an administrative or managerial capacity. My numbers-obsessed mind makes the connection, and gives me a little thrill.
“In a word,” I say, “unconditional love.”
“The foundation of all good things.” Sheepish, she adds, “As you’ve noticed, I sometimes have a wee bit of trouble with the grudge thing.”
“Yeah, but that aside, I thought Troika was anti-emotion.”
“No one is anti-emotion.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Feelings matter, but they can change in a blink, making them an unreliable guide.”
Over the intercom, the usual voice announces, “Tenley Lockwood. Your parents are waiting for you in Dr. Vans’s office.”
I tense with nervousness, maybe even a little eagerness. My mom actually kept her promise?
My dad has visited once every other month. When I asked him about my mom, he said, “We’re currently separated, living apart. She’s decided seclusion is better than family.”
She left him...and me.
Bow climbs to her feet. “If at any time you decide Troika is the place for you, verbalize your allegiance. That’s all you have to do. Your word is your bond.”
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